


A good teammate

by Petra



Category: DCU (Outsiders), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, imaginary sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-11
Updated: 2005-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derry wanted Roy wanking. Despite, or perhaps because of, my inability to read 'wanking' as a sexy word, I wrote this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A good teammate

It's been a hell of a week. Nobody should have to save the world and deal with a kid with an ear infection at the same time, but sometimes shit happens. Roy's so tired when he finally gets home that he can't sit on the couch, because if he does he'll fall asleep. As it is, he ends up leaning on the wall in the shower for way too long and blessing the new paychecks that will cover the water bill. Lian's already asleep, so no one's going to notice that he's been in here however long it's been.

On the way out of the bathroom, he catches sight of himself in the fogged-up mirror and makes a face. He wipes the mirror to get a better look, but it doesn't make him look any better. The shadows under his eyes will go away with enough sleep, but he shouldn't have those lines -- wrinkles, god no -- around his mouth. "Jesus, you need to get laid," he says to his reflection. Any more grim frowns and he's going to turn into Dick. There are probably clubs still open, somewhere. Probably if he called Grace she'd take him up on it. Except that would mean staying awake until she got there, which doesn't seem all that likely.

Instead, he drags his sorry ass to bed and flops down with a sigh. Maybe tomorrow he'll go out, find someone, and let them tell him how great he is. Better if it was someone who actually knew, as opposed to just reacting to the way he looks, but anybody who's attracted to Roy Harper for the sake of him being Roy Harper probably needs therapy, not sex. And while Speedy and Arsenal got laid on occasion, that's not what he's looking for.

He'll probably call Grace, tomorrow. At least she'll be willing to come over and hold him against the wall to kiss him for a while. Thinking about it makes him want her right now, but if he wakes her up, she's not going to be nearly as forgiving as if he just imagines her. She'd come over -- in this fantasy, anyway -- and she wouldn't be half as tired as he is. She'd have that spark in her eyes, the 'I'm going to fuck you' shine that shows up as 'I'm going to fuck you up' when she's about to kick ass.

But he's not up to sparring, so she'd go easy on him. As easy as Grace goes, anyway, meaning he probably won't get a bruise on his neck where she's sucking it, or on his wrists when she gets tired of him playing with her breasts. They're really nice breasts, though. Maybe if he sucks on them for a while, it'll make that spark flare up more and she'll straddle his thigh and rub against him. It's like that joke about the gorilla, only a lot sexier -- a seven-foot amazon can sit wherever she wants. He's just got to convince her to sit on him.

He gropes for the tissues and starts rubbing himself, thinking about the way she feels, firm and soft in all the right places, hot and wet around him. And the way she sounds, those noises in her throat, and her voice, rough and demanding and dirty the way sex is supposed to be. She's fierce and hot and she shivers when he rubs her clit, like she's surprised he wants to, like she doesn't know it makes her look even hotter, even more dangerous.

Especially when she comes, tight and gasping and rocking against him like she's gonna die if she doesn't get exactly what she needs right now. He thinks about her with her head thrown back, focused on fucking him, and jerks into his hand, into the tissues. And there is no Grace to kiss him, and he can't bury his face in her breasts and just breathe until at least tomorrow. So he wipes himself off and curls up around the pillow, wishing it smelled like sweat and dangerous women. Tomorrow, he thinks, and falls asleep.


End file.
